


The Captain's Conscience

by Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Death, Duty, Gen, Leadership, Origin Story, Regret, Self-Doubt, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: Set during episode 4,The Frogs and the Lobsters. This is my first fic in this fandom, so this is going to be a little more of an experiment than what I'm usually writing.I am always grateful for comments and criticism- fire away! :)Anywho, without further ado, let's get to the story...
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22





	The Captain's Conscience

**Author's Note:**

> Set during episode 4, _The Frogs and the Lobsters _. This is my first fic in this fandom, so this is going to be a little more of an experiment than what I'm usually writing.  
>  I am always grateful for comments and criticism- fire away! :)__
> 
> _  
>   
> _
> 
> _  
> _____  
> _Anywho, without further ado, let's get to the story..._  
>   
> 

The thought sat heavily on his mind, eating slowly away at it- pulling the oar, hard, not quite in time with the well-practiced strokes of his men, one of whom sat relived of his duty, with nothing to do but to recuperate his strength, at the stern of the boat.

This was not a captain’s work, but he saw it as self-chastisement for the crime he accused himself of. He had been complicit in all this; had nodded to Hood’s plan, transferred Charette against his better instincts without raising his voice against the clamorous call to arms his Britannic Majesty, as Hood had assured the exiled Frenchman, apparently supported. And at what cost? Loyal British subjects had to be considered lost, or dead, upon the French mainland, sacrificed for no reason at all.

Pellew, sensing a spark of hope rose from the charred remains of his conscience, dared not hope to see any of the men sent from the Indefatigable to _Muzillac_ again- no, one must not indulge in false hope. Maybe they were already dead- it could only be hoped that their deaths had been quick, so that while having died in vain, at least they had not breathed their final breaths in torturous agony.

And yet, he dared to hope, hope with the firm belief that all might be well, or could be remedied, by the appliance of an ounce of personal bravery- he had long since abstained from some of the more vainglorious and dangerous things he had done as a young midshipman- headstands on the yardarm of the _Blonde_ , much to the amusement of his captain and the horror of their guest, General Burgoyne and such things, but intrepidity, however foolish and ill-advised, was hard to kill in a man- even when he had learned to master youthful bravado and channel it into the gentlemanly virtue of patriotic bravery that the task of commanding a ship of His Majesty’s Navy required.

He tried to comfort himself that all what could be done at this moment in time, was done- that if the men lived still, he would do everything to retrieve them- or as many as were still alive, as speedily as possible.

“Pull”, he shouted for the hundredth, possibly thousandth time- so often had he repeated the word alongside shallow paroles to encourage his men to row, inspire them to carry on pulling at the oars in order to tug the _Indefatigable_ to Muzillac, that his voice, despite being accustomed to bellowing across a ship’s deck in a winter gale, had grown hoarse and his mouth and throat dry.

He craved a jug of water, clean clothes and a cloud to conquer the force of the blazing sun- yet at the same time, accepted these averse circumstances, gladly even- such was his punishment. A captain could not be flogged around the fleet, forced to run the gauntlet, or made to stand at the gratings; an officer was entitled to a court-martial, but his failure required more immediate punishment than that.

He had failed to protect his men. It was hard to find good sailors during wartime; the press-gangs of Plymouth could only supply so many men, and most of them were unskilled landsmen that could not in groups of five fulfil the work of a well-trained, experienced sailor. In his present predicament, he would have preferred to remain so calm as to think of his men as useful tools to the completion of a task only- but his conscience recalled to him faces more and faces less familiar, but above all, the face of the young lieutenant now fighting for his life- if he was still alive, that was.

All his life, which had since his salad days been devoted to the Service, he had believed in the rightness of his service, of the purposefulness of it- for the first time, he questioned it all.

Even during the action of the 15th June 1780- some 18 years ago, when he had been first lieutenant in the Apollo; he remembered the butcher’s bill still- twenty wounded, six dead, including her captain.

Captain Philemon Pownoll had been shot in the gut while engaging the French privateer _Stanislaus_. He had stood next to the captain, the shot could just as well have hit him. But the Gods of War had decided in their need of a blood sacrifice to take Pownoll.

The primal roar of pain as the captain had fallen onto the deck, the dull thud when his body touched the planks, his abdomen deformed most abnormally, a mangled mass of blood, bone and intestines that had coloured the buff waistcoat scarlet- “No”, he heard himself cry, and fell to his knees, barely taking note of the protesting pain in his knees as he flung himself onto them, gathering the writhing, _dying_ , man in his arms.

In this moment, when it had been clear there would be no return to duty together ever in this world, Pellew had let go of the demeanour expected of a lieutenant serving his captain, and held him as tenderly as a relative, _a son_ , would have to give him comfort in those agonising last moments.

“Pellew, I know you won’t give His Majesty’s ship away”, Pownoll had uttered through laboured breaths, looking him in the eye with the same expectant trust as he had always done when assigning a task to him before they had lost their animus, reduced to empty, staring marbles. He had gotten up then, letting go of Pownoll, whose wounds had coloured his clothes red also, wiped his face with a hand he had not realised was red with the blood of his captain, and assumed command of his vessel.

Six years later, he had held another Pownoll in his arms, covered in blood and screaming at the top of his tiny lungs- Master Pownoll Pellew had just turned twelve, and was waiting at home in England with his lovely mother, two sisters and two brothers for the return of their father.

Pellew swallowed hard. “Pull!”

Philemon Pownoll had licked into shape a wayward cub previously unaccustomed to discipline- having been removed from his previous ship for a quarrel with her captain (damned be John Stott, that cur dog), he had been sent to the _Apollo_ next- and had found in Pownoll a great friend and champion- and more than that- the father he had lost at seven years old.

While insisting on upholding discipline and authority, Pownoll had been a prudent man, one with a heart, one who did not think of his men as pawns on the chess board, disposable; he had been an inspirer of men, a brave officer and caring of his crew- and he, Midshipman Edward Pellew, had always aspired to one day be like this man who had wept when he had considered him lost at sea after jumping into the water to save a drowning man.

Personally, he had never doubted he would return with the unfortunate sailor who had gone overboard, but the faces of the men, and Pownoll himself, when they had tossed him a line to tie around the unconscious sailor and himself to be pulled aboard, spoke of their relief and amazement at seeing him return alive.

His captain had called him to his cabin, and scolded him with dewy eyes of his being accountable for his actions, of defying orders when jumping overboard and even more for imperilling his life so readily. There had been no punishment for his bold defiance of the Articles of War, and his captain- Pownoll’s scolding that had been interspersed with pauses in which the man had dabbed at his eyes with a horridly-coloured lavender silken handkerchief, had touched him more profoundly than any punishment could have.

There had been no time for him to weep- he disliked the idea of it, particularly in front of his men, although he had felt like it, but to go to his cabin and give way to his feelings would have been even further neglect of his duty to his King and his men than he already was guilty of. No more than a pained groan had escaped him when he had received Bracegirdle’s report of harsh reality.

From personal experience, he knew that men inspired by their leader would follow him willingly into battle- and he had led them all to the slaughter. Their deaths were his doing, his only- right from the start, he had known that this was an ill-fated expedition, had known before the return of the _Dumbarton_ , _Katherine_ and _Sophia_ had made it clear that even the Admiralty did not believe this forlorn hope could bring about a success.

And yet, he had kept his mouth shut. The nineteen-year-old-Pellew, freshly come under the command of his new captain, would have objected. He would not have remained silent at hearing so cavalier and impossible a plan, would never have nodded along- he resented himself for what he had become, like that man Stott who had turned him out of his ship for quarrelling. A man too eager to please his superiors and chasing their approbation, too aware of his own position to put it in jeopardy by questioning his orders.

Orders- a queer thing they were. One could follow them to the best of one’s interpretation and still be court-martialled, and shot for _having failed to do his utmost_ \- or at the very least subjected to _such other punishment as the nature and degree of the offence shall be found to deserve_.

Such were the mathematics of defeat, a hateful equation- either he could be tried by the Admiralty, shot even, maybe, or the lives of many good men could be lost.

He had chosen personal accountability rather than leaving these wretched souls to die- his conscience had moved him to do so, and still could not feel at ease with his decision:

Whatever he could have chosen to do, returning to England or rowing towards Muzillac, he was, and would still be at peril of being charged with a similar crime; Scylla and Charybdis were flanking _Indefatigable_ and her captain, waiting for his decision that would drive him into the devouring mouths of either one. He recalled a passage from a book he had read a long time ago for the first time, but found himself returning to this particular passage fairly often when he was in a pensive mood:

_The coast was lined with crowds of people, whose eyes were fixed on a fine man kneeling, with his eyes bandaged, on board one of the men of war in the harbour. Four soldiers stood opposite to this man; each of them fired three balls at his head, with all the calmness in the world; and the whole assembly went away very well satisfied._

_"What is all this?" said Candide; "and what demon is it that exercises his empire in this country?"_

_He then asked who was that fine man who had been killed with so much ceremony. They answered, he was an Admiral._

_"And why kill this Admiral?"_

_"It is because he did not kill a sufficient number of men himself. He gave battle to a French Admiral; and it has been proved that he was not near enough to him."_

_"But," replied Candide, "the French Admiral was as far from the English Admiral."_

_"There is no doubt of it; but in this country it is found good, from time to time, to kill one Admiral to encourage the others."_

It was written by a Frenchman, but there was some truth to it nevertheless; one needn’t be an admiral to be uneasily affected by these words. What they’d chosen to do with Byng in ‘57, they could do with him, too- either shoot him for the failed expedition upon his disgraceful return to England for having killed a sufficient number of men, but the wrong ones, or for _failing to do his utmost_ , namely abandoning the part of the ship’s crew left with Charette’s troops on land, among them a promising young officer who would rise through the service, one day-

“Pull!”

He mustn’t think about Hornblower. If the service taught one anything, it was not to attach one’s self to anyone- Death in battle came swift and imminent and did not discriminate between a carpenter’s mate and a captain. A man alive today could be dead tomorrow; his vessel sunk; he drowned, or killed by cannon shot. It was particularly unwise in times of war, and yet, he had made that error.

To value the young lieutenant as a capable young officer was one thing; wishing him above all others to return aboard _Indefatigable_ safely, another. To think fondly of him, almost as if he were his s- _one of his very own_ , it was not wise. Maybe the boy was dead already, and he could do nothing for him.

Stricken with immeasurable guilt he recalled how he had looked up to Philemon Pownoll with the same wide, admiring eyes he had seen Hornblower make whenever addressing him and threw his full weight into the next pull.

He had made the unforgivable mistake of leading him to that predicament in which Hornblower found himself- it had been his, Pellew’s doing despite having had doubts right from the start, doubts he had sacrificed to shallow diplomacy at the Admiralty.

For any deaths occurred or presently occurring, he was responsible, he alone, even if no one else would view it like that.

He had failed, as an officer, a man, and as the father of his ship’s company.

His fingers burned, his body perspired horribly in the unyielding ray of the afternoon sun, his voice grew thinner with every exclamation of that damned word “pull” and before his eyes, his mental and physical strength waning equally, jumbled pictures emerged, of Pownoll’s body, bloodied, mangled, his meeting with Lord Hood, Charette, Hornblower.

It cost him considerable strength to wipe them away, at least for the moment- the _Indefatigable_ needed to be pulled towards Muzillac, speedily.

He had done his duty to his Admiral and by extension to his King and Country, and it had proven a failure. Now, he would do his duty to his men, as his conscience dictated. At whatever cost, he would persevere.

Those men now fighting the Republican forces alongside the Royalists and commanded by a young lieutenant with his life, and career still ahead of him, had been failed negligently by their captain. He would not fail them twice.

Pulling at his oar, he did what he could to drag Indefatigable inch by inch towards Muzillac, that _painted ship upon a painted ocean_ , weighing as heavy as the thoughts occupying his mind.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Time** : as the episode doesn't give away what year it is set in, I have boldly decided it's 1798. Might not add up entirely with the rest of the canon, but there is a little Easter egg pointing that way; at one point, Pellew quotes from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ ("As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean"), the initial version of which was published in 1798 so for Pellew to know the poem (unless he was besties with Coleridge and got a sneak-peek during the last shore leave) that was the earliest he could have known it.
> 
> All of Pellew's youthful antics were lifted from the real-life Edward Pellew, who in many respects might have served as a inspiration for the character of Horatio Hornblower. As a midshipman, he is said to have saved a drowning man by just jumping into the water without thinking twice and was afterwards scolded by Pownoll and apparently, he really did that headstand on the yardarm-thing to scare General Burgoyne, too. Captain Pownoll, according to Edward Osler's 1841 biography, was really calm about it, remarking that one was used to Pellew doing odd things like that and that in the event of his losing his balance, Pellew would hit the water on one side on the ship and emerge unharmed on the other. 
> 
> Naval officers of the time sometimes adopted a rather paternal stance when it came to their crews, especially the midshipmen who tended to be fairly young (Nelson had been 12 when he joined the service; the gallant hero of this TV series was fairly old at 17) and would be taught by their captain- who would, if familiar with the parents, sometimes write to them of their son's progress and could, if such an agreement between parents and captain were in place, pay out only a part of the young man's wages as 'pocket money' so the young lad wouldn't spend his entire pay on one shore leave. In a way, especially with the younger midshipmen, the captain had to some extent pick up where the parents left off.  
> For many naval officers, home life remained a distant reality they were barely able to engage with (the _Hornblower_ novels do a good job at portraying the difficulty of communicating with one's family- Hornblower misses the births of his three kids every time and only learns much later of the death of his first wife); the ship and its crew became a sort-of substitute family to some- with the obvious restrictions and restraints of the steep hierarchy on board.  
> Instances of this phenomenon can be found going both ways; Lieutenant Pellew mourned the loss of Captain Pownoll by writing "The ship's company have lost a father. I have lost much more, a father and a friend united" and another Captain (Philip Broke, captain of the HMS _Shannon_ during the historic engagement with USS _Chesapeake_ called his midshipmen his "sea children". 
> 
> The excerpt quoted in the story has been taken from an English translation of Voltaire's _Candide _(1759). Voltaire wrote this novella in part to criticise Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz' very optimistic theory that we humans live "in the best of all possible worlds". Thus, he has his eponymous main character embark on an incredible journey through the length and breadth of the world on which he encounters cruelty, injustice and basically everything that's bad around every corner. Some may be familiar with Candide's story from Leonard Bernstein's operetta by the same name.__  
>  The exact excerpt quoted refers to the court martial and subsequent execution of Admiral Byng, which at the time _Candide_ was published had occurred a mere two years in the past.


End file.
